"But the Queen! Perhaps----"
"There is no perhaps about it. The Queen asked De Lorgnac to find her an agent, and he has named you."
"I was going to say that if the Queen finds I am bourgeois----"
"We can leave the matter of a coat-of-arms to the Queen." And he laughed as he continued: "Perhaps that may come to the plain Monsieur Broussel--and--it has just gone compline, and we, or rather you, must see the Queen."
"I am ready," I said.
"Then let us be away! Everything has gone well. The King has left for Fontainebleau to hunt the boar. He started this afternoon; Madame Diane is with him. The royal children are at St. Germain-en-Laye, and but for its guards the Louvre is deserted; there is no one here but the Queen. Come, then!"
With a whistle to the ape, which hopped along in front of us, he opened the door and pa.s.sed out, I following on his heels. Outside, we found ourselves in a maze of twisting pa.s.sages, along which my guide went with quick, light steps. Finally, we turned into an arched doorway, and, ascending a stair, stood on the roof of one of the galleries connecting the wings of the Louvre with the great keep.
The twilight was dead, but the moon was rising in a clear, cloudless sky. By her light we walked along the lonely battlements until we reached a flight of steps, upon which the shadow of the Philippine fell darkly. Arrived at the head of the steps we gained an embattled balcony, giving access, by means of a lancet arch, into the keep.
Through this we pa.s.sed, and entered a long, low corridor. So low, indeed, that by raising the baton he carried in his hand Le Brusquet, though not a tall man, could easily reach the joints of the groined roof. Here we stood for a s.p.a.ce, where a banner of moonlight lay on the floor--the ape a dark spot in its whiteness. All was silent as the grave. Once there was a startling rush of wings as a homing-pigeon flew past the open arch and hissed off into the night. All was in semi-gloom, except where the moon lit the floor at our feet, and where, at intervals, a dim yellow halo marked the spot where a feeble lamp was burning in a niche set far back in the huge walls.
"And this leads to the Queen"s apartment," whispered Le Brusquet, with a shrug of his shoulders, as he led the way along the gallery, which curved with the shape of the keep. On rounding the curve it came to an abrupt ending. Here a lamp swung by a chain from the roof, and by its light we dimly saw before us a large door, firmly closed, and seeming to bar all further progress. Near the door a man was seated in an alcove in the wall, his knees almost up to his chin, his drawn sword in his hand. He swung round on to his feet as we came up. It was De Lorgnac.
"The Queen awaits you," he said, without further greeting, and tapped twice at the door. It was opened at once, and both Le Brusquet and myself were about to step in when De Lorgnac laid his hand on the former"s arm.
"M. Broussel alone," he said, drawing Le Brusquet back, and I pa.s.sed through the door.
I found myself in a small ante-chamber; but there was not a soul within. I stood for a moment irresolute, when the door behind me opened once again, and I heard De Lorgnac"s voice.
"Onwards! Through the curtains ahead of you."
This I did, and entered a large room, richly furnished. The light, bright though soft, of the tall candles burning in grotesque holders fell on the curtains of violet velvet, starred with the golden lilies of France, on the rare tapestry, that covered the walls, on embroidered cushions and quaint carvings. There were flowers in abundance everywhere; but their scent was killed by something that burned in a cup held by a little bronze Ganymede, the odour of which filled the room with a sweet but heavy scent. This room, like the other, was likewise empty, and after glancing round twice to make sure, I took my stand near a table, upon which there were some writing materials and a pair of richly embroidered gloves. The sight of the gloves brought old Camus back to my mind, and I was about to take one up, to look at the workmanship, when I heard a footfall; the curtains were set aside, and a woman stood before me.
It was Catherine de Medicis herself. It was years since I had seen her, then a young girl; but now, though still young, she was in the bloom of ripened womanhood. People said that, with all her accomplishments, she lacked courage, and was dull and stupid. As my glance rested on the pale features, on the somewhat sullen mouth, and on the dark, expressionless eyes before me, I began to think they were right. To-day, however, I was also to begin learning a new lesson.
Others have since learned it too, and paid for the learning as lessons have never been paid for before or after. She let fall the curtain she held as I sank on one knee before her and extended me a shapely hand.
As I touched it with my lips she said in her deep-toned voice:
"M. Broussel, arise!"
I did so, and, moving towards the chair near the table, she sat down, and began toying with one of the gloves, her eyes not meeting my look, but surveying me with a swift sidelong glance.
"_Eh bien_!" she said, "you are that M. Broussel who came so opportunely to the rescue of my cousin of Vendome."
I bowed, and with another of her swift glances she asked:
"And you are to be trusted?"
"Your Majesty," I said, "I have but my word to offer for this--I have none who will add his pledge to mine."
"No one? Are you sure?"
"Your Majesty, it is as I have said."
A faint smile parted her lips, and she looked up at me suddenly and quickly, her eyes as alive with intelligence as they had appeared dull and lifeless before.
"Well, monsieur, before I trust you," and she struck the glove she held in her hand on the table, "it is necessary for me to tell you something. Listen. Many years ago--I was new to France then--a young gentleman of the best blood of Burgundy came to Paris, and entered at the College of Cambrai. Well, he did what none other of his time did, nor has any of his order done the like since. He took the three courses--took them brilliantly. You follow me?"
"I am all attention, madame." My voice was as cold and measured as hers, but in my heart I began to wonder if I would leave the room for a journey to Montfaucon, with a halt by the way at the Chatelet.
"But," she continued, "this man was not a mere bookworm nor a pedant, though Le Brun, whose voice was the voice of the Sorbonne then, prophesied a red hat for him. The red hat never came, nor did a marshal"s baton, though Bevilacqua himself foretold the latter one day, as he brushed away a chalk mark just over the heart, where this young man"s foil had touched him. Bevilacqua, mind you--the best sword in Europe!"
I made as if about to speak. I was about to ask her bluntly what was to be the end of this, but with a wave of her hand she stayed me.
"Permit me to continue, monsieur! This man, or boy as he was then, was true metal all through, but he was cursed with an open heart and wealth. Let us say that the course of Philosophy unsettled his mind, that the two campaigns in Italy brought but withered laurels. Let it be what you will, but back he came to Paris; and because his blood was warm, his spirits high, and his heart full of vanity and vain imaginings, the red wine was poured forth, the dice rattled, fair women smiled, and the gold crowns went. It was the old, old story; but the pity of it, monsieur, was that it was such pure good steel that was fretting thus to rust! Was it not?"
She stopped, and looked at me again with her wonderful, searching eyes, and I braced myself, as one who was about to receive a death-blow.
"At last the end came. This brave, gallant--fool--yes, that is the word--quarrelled with his best friend over a lady of the Marais--of the Marais, mind you! This friend wanted to save him from himself. The result was that those two, who had been like brothers, met each other sword in hand under the lee of the Louvre, and one--it was not the fool--fell."
The words seemed to thunder in my ears. By some effort, I knew not how, I managed to restrain myself, and her cold, pa.s.sionless voice went on:
"After that came ruin--ruin utter and hopeless. And he who might have been anything died like a dog of the streets."
Something like a gasp of relief broke from me; but the Medicis had not done yet. She rose swiftly, and for one brief second let her white hand, glittering with rings, rest on my shoulder. It was for a moment only, and then she let fall her hand, with a smile on her face.
"They say, monsieur, that the age of miracles is past. Caraffa the Legate smiles if you mention them. But I--I believe, for I know. The dead have come back before. Why not again, Bertrand d"Orrain? Would you live again, and pledge your faith for that of the Bourgeois Broussel?"
CHAPTER V
THE PORTE ST. MICHEL
Half-an-hour later, when I quitted the presence of the Queen, it was as one to whom the world was opening afresh, and in that brief interval I had felt and begun to understand the subtle intellect of Catherine, of the existence of which few as yet were aware.
In regard to the mission with which I was entrusted I am pledged to preserve silence. The people concerned in it are dead, and when I follow them the secret will go with me. Let it suffice for me to say that my task was such that a man of honour could accept, and that if I failed the preservation of my skin was my own affair, for help I would get from none. Hidden in the inner pocket of my vest was a dispatch to Montluc, the King"s lieutenant in the South. In my hand I openly bore a letter, sealed with the _palle_ of the Medici, and addressed in the Queen"s own writing to the King. It was to be the means of my freeing the gates of Paris if difficulty arose, and how it did so I shall presently show.
I found my friends awaiting me, and Le Brusquet asked:
"Well, have you come forth a made man?"
"Monsieur, I will answer you that," I said with a.s.sumed gravity, "if you will tell me who betrayed me to the Queen."
I looked from one to the other, and they both laughed.
"Behold the traitor, then!" And Le Brusquet pointed with his finger at me.
"I?"
"Yes, you!--as if you had called it from the housetops. _Mon ami_, did ever hear of a bourgeois handling sword as you, or bearing arms _un coq d"or griffe de sable, en champ d"azur_? Those arms are on your wine-cups--if they exist still--they are on the hilt of the sword you lent me."
"_Morbleu_!"